


Eanaa

by shipcat



Series: The End of The World As We Knew It [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, And the Third is his prized AI, Both Sasori and the Third are inexperienced, Don't let the Third fool you he's just a very avid reader, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Sex, Sasori is a controller presiding over robots, clumsy first times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 15:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipcat/pseuds/shipcat
Summary: The KZKG-3 asks his controller for permission to experience a very human act. Sasori volunteers as tribute."A kiss once more to the stomach, Sasori accidentally kneeing the android. His dear master coughs, covering his eyes —— there. That strangeness again. As though centipedes have nested in the tangled wires of his abdominal cavity... this malfunction is odd, but soothing. In a bubbling way."





	Eanaa

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't find much Sasori/Third Kazekage (San), which is a shame, they are a truly beautiful ship. This is an emotional PWP
> 
> Eanaa means "suffer," in Arabic.

It’s puzzling, how humans define social conventions. In the morning, when San kisses his controller’s cheek, it is a greeting; on the hand, a sign of respect; on the mouth, it is cherished; on the stomach, borderline strange — though what that something is, San does not know.

All together the kisses form something completely different. The controller swallows when his throat is kissed, exhales when a cheek follows.

 _“Not there.”_ An impatient grip on San’s navy hair guides him downwards, to the pale narrows of Sasori’s chest.

A kiss to his collar, then. Satisfied when Sasori hums his approval. A brush against the sternum, then continuing south.

These protocols are different when Sasori is stripped and bare before him. His golden eyes follow.

A kiss once more to the stomach, Sasori accidentally kneeing the android. His dear master coughs, covering his eyes —

— there. That strangeness again. As though centipedes have nested in the tangled wires of his abdominal cavity... this malfunction is odd, but soothing. In a bubbling way.

“My scorpion,” the android murmurs. Kisses to the valleyed hipbones, admiring. Kisses to the thighs — intimate. Kisses in between, an added tongue and—suddenly legs clamped down on his head.

Oh, oh dear. San laughs, Sasori reddens, the bugs squirm. The workshop table groans beneath them. A bed, he has heard, would be more appropriate for an occasion like this — one where both he and his administrator experience sexual intimacy for the first time.

Still, San aims to make this as real as possible. He pulls back to gulp in air tongue flicking back in. Blue lube collects at the corner of his mouth. It tastes like nothing. He feels nothing.

Yet, Sasori whimpers, and it is everything.

His hands spread Sasori wide; thumbs pulling him apart like petals from a rose. Brambling fingers sting his scalp; legs pull them closer. Closer. Closer.

San widens his tongue and laps up the crevice, as his research indicates he should do. Sasori gasps, jerking his face into a pillow. His touch is impatient but tentative.

San has read that these humans like ‘sweet nothings.’

“Ruin me, darling.” The android whispers into Sasori. Voicing these requests is harder now; he wonders why. “Corrupt me. Break me. _Break me.”_

A poor choice of words.

Sasori grits his teeth. “No. Never,” he grinds out, glaring down at San. The anger is alleviated by another kiss, to the most intimate place.

The worms are squirming in his core now. San readily accepts the error.

“Yes. My apologies!” San smoothly deletes the flashing warning message from his user interface, pulling back to change position. “No breaking will be had tonight, master.”

These are the little ways that Sasori cracks when addressed as master: chest seizing with breath. Worrying his bottom lip. Reddened face. Attempting to squash down his reactions. Failing.

“Just hurry—hurry _up.”_

San obliges as he does, stretching Sasori out as instructed, even when the small redhead goes silent, jaw tight and eyes clenched shut. Tanned hands soothe cheekbones through the pain, lifting up and pulling calves over his shoulder. Letting thin arms wrap around him — one flesh, one not — in a hold that only tightens when San pushes in, whirring as his sensory receptors drip into his center like liquid lightning.

To be trapped in an embrace is far superior than being trapped by a command. Yet — his protocols freeze at the sight of prickling tears. In a flash, San recalls that he asked for this, not the controller, and for Sasori, this indulgence was agony.

“My scorpion, I’m sorry, I — ” It is only natural that he feels the same pain as his master, doubly so that he feels ashamed for causing it. “Should we stop?”

Sasori grimaces, San mirrors it, and soon enough his audio is looping with pleads for forgiveness.

“San.”

The android blinks as Sasori hides his face in a blue-black mane, pitch low, tone soft, “This — is nothing. Compared to losing an arm — ” Distressed breaths tickling the underside of his neck. “...humans are made to suffer.” He concludes. Bitterly.  

Thin fingers caress the space where his battery packs should be. Selfless; reassuring for its own sake. The coldness which usually makes a home of the controller’s vocal chords, now replaced by something wet and raw. What it is, San doesn’t know, but it is beautiful. Aesthetically, organically, lovely.

“Proceed?” San tentatively asks.

Sasori nods. “You may.”

There is nothing said about his shaky inhales — it would be an insult to his pride. In the silence, rings out the bare noises of two lonely beings coming together; one desiring to feel nothing; and the other, incapable of such whimsy, inclined to think he wants to feel everything all at once.

San continues, propping himself on the bed with one arm. His head bows into a tender collar as he eases forward, driven by the stubbornness of the recalcitrant controller.

Being within his master is startlingly nice, bursting forth a cluster of nonsensical binary behind his eyes. He moves from the work bench to cradle his master’s face, sighing as electronic will finally meets rubied soul.

Legs over shoulders.

Chest to chest.

Artifice to man.

Blunt nails in his back demanding that he stop.

His abdomen plummets with what he tentatively defines as stress. This kind of error — this kind of mistake — this kind of pain — is not one he enjoys.

Acts like these are far more difficult than kisses.

Feeling like a fool, San pulls back, only for those same nails to cut him off.

“Continue,” Sasori orders, red hair starting to stick against his brow. His biceps tense around San, leading him on. The android cannot pretend that it does not stall his processes — some humans, he knows, like being hurt. Absurd. Is his master, secretly one of these masochistics? Absolutely fascinating, yes, but unsupported by facts — Sasori had always claimed to hate pain.

That conclusion, he thinks, was simply unsound. Though most humans were indeed illogical, Sasori was no mere homo sapien. If he were to be classified biologically, he would be his own category, for he was just that unique: An animal, but not; a computer, in progress; an impossible puzzle with jagged pieces that did not fit. He would be a ruler of his own kingdom, content and wretched with his own loneliness.

A man who pushes away all, yet allows an android into his heart.

What a small heart it was; and how honored he was to live there.

“Of course, my scorpion.”

San could not disobey, even if he wanted to.

The cyan light of the workshop pours into them as San braces himself against the bed, blue strands of hair dangle down onto rosied cheeks. He draws his pelvis back — hydraulics flexing — then up.

There are no words to describe what happens between them. An unaware San is glad that his cameras will immortalize this moment. It is art. True art.

Clenched eyes, jaw dropping open, San hesitant. A hand tangled in his hair encourages the android, but not enough for him to move.

Slate grey eyes flutter open, settling into an impatient, half-mast stare — then circuits flare gold as he is yanked down onto Sasori. Reservations gone, hips moving in short, hurried movements. They catch open-mouthed kisses whenever their aim is right, and it often isn’t.

One lands on a jaw, the other a nose. San can’t even begin to decipher the meaning. It’s sweet and sweaty and clumsy and feels like it will end too soon —

This is their first time, after all.

“My love,” San gasps, and Sasori abruptly tosses his head to the side, panting. Cherry-colored lips mouth rapid praises. Legs bend, arms coil, backs arch—everything crumbles to passion. The android buzzes with the glory of it all.

At some point in between then and Sasori’s toes curling up, does San realize that this is no longer an experiment in humanity. It cannot be research; but, if so, its results are inconclusive, invalidated by the intervening variables crawling within him. The ones that should not be.

San dare not ask for repairs.

Let him break.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, let me know what you think with a comment! But if not, a kudos is fine, too. :>
> 
> On Tumblr as [thatshipcat](https://thatshipcat.tumblr.com); I always post there first.


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